As somebody who dreams really big dreams for schooling and education, I know firsthand that there exists a particular kind of tension in the hearts of those who dare to reimagine what is possible.

How do we live purposefully in schools as they are right now while stretching toward a vision of education that is dramatically better?

I hear this tension whenever I go share around the country about the transformative work we are doing at Odyssey Leadership Academy

When I talk about making mattering matter

When I share visions of schools that are learner centered and purpose driven

When I coach school leaders who desperately want to see hope, change, and renewal come to their school but feel locked into systems that are bound with a thousand chains

It is the tension of showing up fully present for this classroom, these students, this day—while simultaneously holding a vision for something radically different. 

Something more joyful. Something more just. 

Something that looks less like management and more like liberation.

This is the tension I hear whenever I talk to schools and school leaders about reimagining education: 

I meet so many amazing educators and school leaders who long to see education transformed around human flourishing, innovation, community, purpose, mattering, and care who live in this tension

Who want things to change but don’t want to leave their current students behind

Who believe in the power of prophetic imagination but don’t know how to make it come about

Who live in the tension of the “already but not yet”

But who just don’t know how to bridge that divide

Here's what I've come to understand:

We are called to two things at once.

We are called to be faithful stewards of the present moment and courageous architects of a different future.

There is this beautiful book by an intellectual mentor of mine (Dr. Walter Brueggemann) titled Prophetic Imagination in which he discusses the power of the prophet (the one tasked with telling better stories on behalf of a community) to stand in the grief of what is and call the people towards what could be

That is the work we do in the tension between the already and the not yet

When we show up with full presence for the school we have today—with all its limitations, its inherited structures, its systemic constraints—we're not settling. 

We're honoring the students and staff who are counting on us right now. 

We're saying: you matter exactly as things are, not just in some idealized tomorrow.

But when we simultaneously hold a vision for something more joyful, more just, more hopeful, more loving—we're refusing to let the weight of "what is" crush the possibility of "what could be." 

We're saying: we deserve better than this, and I won't stop working toward it.

The key is learning to hold both truths without letting one diminish the other.

We do that through the power of practicing prophetic imagination

In Dr. Brueggemann’s work, he helps us understand that prophets aren't lone voices shouting from the margins. They are representative voices giving social expression to what engaged communities already sense but cannot yet articulate.

The prophet's work is fundamentally about language and imagination—about offering alternative worlds through the power of speech and story.

As Brueggemann writes, prophetic texts are "poetic scenarios of alternative social reality" that confront our taken-for-granted worlds. This isn't primarily about social action or policy reform.

It's about consciousness transformation—about nurturing and evoking a way of seeing that offers a genuine alternative to the dominant culture around us.

That alternative consciousness is not just a critic railing at the system.

Instead, it energizes and promises. It serves communities by offering hope of another time and situation toward which we may move.

It lives in fervent anticipation of the newness that is possible, using the tools of memory, imagination, and yearning to contradict despair.

This is the work we do in the tension between the already and the not yet.

This is where the prophetic imagination begins—with asking a different set of questions entirely than what we typically ask

What would a school rooted in joy look like? Not the manufactured "fun" of pizza parties and spirit weeks, but the deep, soul-level joy that comes from meaningful work, authentic relationships, and the freedom to be fully human in a learning community.

What would a school committed to justice look like? Not just in our diversity statements and equity committees, but in who gets to speak, whose stories get centered, which students receive second chances, and how power is actually distributed in our buildings.

What would a hopeful school look like? One where both students and adults wake up energized by possibility rather than drained by compliance. Where mistakes are met with curiosity instead of punishment. Where failure is reframed as information rather than identity.

What would a loving school look like? One where care isn't conditional on performance. Where belonging isn't earned but freely given. Where every person—from the superintendent to the newest student—operates from the fundamental belief that they are worthy of dignity and respect.

These aren't abstract ideals. They're invitations to reimagine what school could be.

And here's the beautiful truth: 

We don't need permission to start building them. We just need to build up the capacity and courage to see it so.

The work of transformation requires something of us.

It demands that we build internal capacity for holding complexity, sitting with discomfort, and remaining grounded when everything around us feels chaotic.

First, we need intellectual capacity. We need to understand not just what's broken but how it got broken. We need to study the history of education, to recognize that many of our "normal" practices were designed with very specific (and often harmful) purposes. We need to read widely, think critically, and question assumptions—especially our own.

Second, we need emotional capacity. Trust me: this work will break your heart open more times than you can count. You'll face resistance from people you respect. You'll make mistakes that hurt others. You'll watch systems crush spirits you're trying to protect. Building emotional capacity means developing practices that help us experience grief, disappointment, and frustration without becoming cynical or checked out.

Third, we need relational capacity. Transformation isn't a solo sport. We need communities of practice where we can be honest about our struggles, vulnerable about our doubts, and accountable to something larger than ourselves. We need mentors who have walked this path before us and peers who are walking it beside us.

Finally, we need “spiritual” capacity—and I don't necessarily mean religious, though for some it will be. I mean the deep well of purpose and meaning that keeps us going when logic says we should quit. The thing that reminds us this work matters even when results are slow. The conviction that love and justice aren't naïve ideals but the very foundation of good education.

To do this prophetic work, we have to stand in the what is and call it out for what it does in order to do the work of what could be

We're asking ourselves to stand in the honest place of a system of education that leaves far too many students behind academically and relationally, that leaves far too many educators burnt out and exhausted, and far too many school leaders leaving within three years

We are asking ourselves to look honestly at an educational system designed for sorting and selecting rather than nurturing and developing, of unjust policies that have never been fully dismantled, of economic structures that underfund schools and undervalue educators, of cultural narratives that reduce children to test scores and reduce learning to compliance.

This is heavy work.

And it requires courage.

Courage to name what's broken when others would prefer we stay silent. Courage to try new approaches when failure might bring criticism. Courage to center student voices when adult comfort is at stake. Courage to move at the speed of trust rather than the speed of mandate.

But courage alone isn't enough.

We also need thoughtfulness.

Thoughtfulness means we don't rush to fix without first seeking to understand.

It means we consider the unintended consequences of our well-intentioned changes. 

It means we ask "who might this harm?" before we celebrate "who might this help?" 

It means we recognize that good intentions have often paved roads to very harmful places in education.

And we need compassion—for others and for ourselves.

Compassion for the teacher who's resisting change because they're exhausted, not because they don't care. Compassion for the student whose behavior is communication, not defiance. Compassion for the system-weary administrator who's forgotten how to dream because survival has been the only option for too long.

And compassion for ourselves when we fall short, when we get it wrong, when we need to rest.

This is something I believe in my soul: Repair is not the same as fixing.

Fixing implies we can return something to its original state. 

Repair is different. Repair acknowledges the break, honors what's been lost, and creates something new that bears the marks of having been broken and mended.

The Japanese art of kintsugi comes to mind—the practice of repairing broken pottery with gold, making the cracks part of the object's history rather than something to hide. The repaired piece is considered more beautiful because it's been broken and put back together.

That's the kind of repair we're called to in schools.

Not to pretend the systems haven't caused harm. Not to paint over the cracks with positive messaging and strategic plans. But to name the breaks honestly, to honor what's been lost, and to rebuild in ways that make the repair visible and valuable.

This means creating spaces where hard truths can be spoken. Where apologies are offered when harm has been done. Where restitution isn't just a discipline strategy but a commitment to making things right when we've gotten them wrong.

It means building schools where adults model what it looks like to be learners—which includes being wrong, being corrected, and choosing to grow rather than defend.

So how do we actually do this? How do we live purposefully in the schools we have while building the schools we need?

Here's what I'm learning:

We practice micro-visions. Not every can transform everything at once, but we can create small pockets of the future we're building. Maybe it's one classroom where student voice truly shapes learning. Maybe it's one meeting where hierarchy is flattened and everyone's perspective is valued equally. Maybe it's one restorative circle that replaces a traditional punishment. These aren't compromises—they're seeds.

We tell different stories. The dominant narratives in education are about scarcity, competition, and measurement. We can tell different stories—stories of abundance, collaboration, and growth. Stories where students are protagonists, not problems. Stories where teachers are professionals, not technicians. Stories where learning is messy and beautiful, not linear and tidy.

We practice radical patience with people and radical urgency about principles. We can be patient with individuals who are learning and growing at their own pace while maintaining urgency about the non-negotiable principles of justice, dignity, and love. This isn't contradiction—it's wisdom.

We build coalitions, not kingdoms. Transformational work isn't about being the hero who fixes everything. It's about building networks of people who share a vision and are willing to work toward it together. It's about recognizing that the person who frustrates you today might be your greatest ally tomorrow—if you're willing to stay in relationship with them.

We celebrate small victories. When a punitive policy gets replaced with a restorative one, we celebrate. When a student who was written off last year discovers their voice this year, we celebrate. When a teacher takes a risk and tries something new, we celebrate. Not because these small victories are enough, but because they're evidence that transformation is possible—and they fuel us for the longer journey.

I won't pretend this work is easy. As someone who has intentionally situated his life in that tension between the already and not yet, I can tell you that there is certainly a cost to operating in that prophetic space

It will cost you time, energy, relationships, maybe even your job if you push too hard in a system that resists change.

But I also can't pretend there's a more worthwhile way to spend a professional life.

Because on the other side of this tension—between what is and what could be—are students who desperately need adults willing to both show up for them today and fight for their tomorrow.

As Dr Brueggemann told me once over lunch when I asked him if prophetic work was really possible:

“Is there any other work worth doing?”

Stay faithful to the present. Stay visionary about the future.

Build the internal capacity you'll need for the long haul. Develop the courage to dive into difficult spaces. Practice thoughtfulness before action. Lead with compassion—for everyone, including yourself.

And remember: transformation isn't about being perfect. It's about being persistent.

It's about showing up day after day, choosing to see possibility in the midst of problems, choosing to plant seeds even when you won't see the full harvest, choosing to repair what's broken rather than abandon it as too far gone.

This is the work. This is the calling.

And you're exactly the person to do it.

Choose one tension you're living with right now—one place where "what is" feels impossibly far from "what could be."

Name it honestly. Write it down. Share it with someone you trust.

Then ask yourself: What's one small action I can take this week that honors the reality I'm in while also building toward the future I want?

Maybe it's reframing one conversation to center student voice. Maybe it's replacing one compliance-based practice with one trust-based alternative. Maybe it's simply telling a different story about a student who's been written off.

You don't have to transform everything today.

You just have to start somewhere.

And the beautiful truth? You already have.

With you in the work,

Scott

p.s. I’m putting the first video edition of The Insightful Educator together now! Stay tuned!!

I cannot wait for January 30th!! That is the day the 2026 Flourishing School Leaders Cohort kicks off

I am spending the year with some amazing school leaders leaning into community, trust, vulnerability, strategy, purpose, meaning, collaboration and hope…and we would love to have you join us!

This is a group full of prophetic imagination standing in that tension of the already and not yet, eager to do big, beautiful, meaningful things on behalf of their learning communities

Check out the information here and come ready to pursue leadership development as pilgrimage!